


run run red

by nefelokokkygia



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefelokokkygia/pseuds/nefelokokkygia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she is War, and when she comes for him, he will bleed for her. post-avengers. nc - 17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	run run red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CandyShark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyShark/gifts).



> written for the _mischief + mistletoe 2012 holiday exchange_.
> 
> contains light bloodplay in a sensual context.

It starts as an itch.

A flickering under her skin, slipping between the plates of her armor, wound tight in the fastenings of her leathers. It prickles in her palms, the leather grip of her glaive warm under her fingers, slick with the sweat of her movements even in the freezing heart of winter. Her heart is thunder in her ears, blood lightning-quick through her veins as Sif whirls through her stances and slices the air around her; everything hums with electricity, like magick faint on the tip of her tongue, a half-taste in her throat.

The warrior's hair is knotted and sweat-sticky against her skin, having escaped its tie hours ago. Her turns and swings are sharp, precise with centuries of honed skill, whip-cuts into the dust. Her feet kick up sand and rock like the restless horses of the mountains, and when she brings the bladed edge of her glaive down for the last time, carving into the brittle, frozen ground, it is moments before the clouds settle.

When she lifts her head, breath labored and long, she can see Loki's golden horns peeking out over the snows of the hills below. The God of Mischief is adorned in his favorite greens and blacks, dark and speckled with armor and trappings of gold. He is tall amidst the blanket of snow that covers most of Ásgarðr, a glittering stag in an ocean of white that shimmers just as clean. The lines of his shoulders are hard, sharp with metal and gold, his hair curled long and thick and choppy beneath his helmet. He stands proud like a stag, horns cutting the air before him like twin daggers, animal-like in their curve. Sif recalls the coolness of the metal beneath her palms, how they warm to her touch when she grips them like reins, riding and guiding Loki rough like an unbroken stallion.

The itch grows, gnawing at her bones and the spaces between her ribs. She tugs her glaive from the sand of the training ground, its leather grip smooth beneath her calloused fingers, and she runs her tongue across her teeth.

The warrior sees too his mother, Frigg wrapped in luscious furs and cloaks for warmth again the bitter cold. Her form is tiny beside her son's, but the queen walks with a grace and dignity that leaves no room for doubt of her power and authority. She is arm-in-arm with Loki, speaking with him as they walk, though Sif is much too far to make out their voices, let alone their words.

The warrior's eyes are sharp, however, and even from her distance she can see the expression on the horned god's face; he watches his footsteps and his mother, nothing more, eyes glittering dark with interest and mouth thin in concentration. When he had first returned to Ásgarðr, mouth caged shut and wrists chained, Frigg had been the first to comfort him, the first to run to his side and say _my son my son you have returned to me, you are broken but you are here and you are mine_. Even Sif herself had not been so keen to forgive him, knowing as they all did the weight of Loki's crimes and how like Thórr he had been on Miðgarðr, before the Thunder God had learned. They were brothers always and in all ways, in their mistakes and the paths they had walked to mend them, and after Malekith and Thanos all of them could breathe.

For all of Loki's dislike for Óðinn, no one could raise a hand to Frigg without fear of losing it.

Sif thinks of her own mother, living quietly in one of the villages surrounding the palaces. She thinks of her father, long gone to Valhöll, ash in her mouth.

The warrior watches the mother and son stop at the edge of a pool, the water frozen and glinting like glass in the half-set sun. The God of Mischief is silent as Frigg reaches up to hold his jaw, tilting his head down as she places a kiss to his gold-limned brow. The queen presses her forehead to his own, and the second prince's mouth flashes the shadow of a smile before it is gone again, fleeting but that is all Sif needs to know that he is at peace. Frigg rests her hand comfortingly on the worn gold of his vambrace before she departs, leaving the horned god to his thoughts.

Sif's gaze follows Loki as he kneels at the edge of the glittering ice, the sparkle of magick beneath his palm as the ice gives way to water, chilled and arctic beneath. The warrior is silent as she watches the second prince dip his hands into the pool, lifting them to his mouth to drink, water dripping from his teeth like glittering stars, icy down his throat and heady on his tongue. His hound-teeth are sharp, glinting dangerous against the setting sun, eyes forest-green and dark, and the warrior feels herself wanting.

She snaps her glaive shut, turning harsh on her heel towards the barracks. Sweat slides like mercury down her back beneath cloth and leather and metal, and the frozen air bites at her eyes, raw upon her lips.

 

Loki is not at dinner, his curving horns nowhere to be found amongst the shining jewels and gleaming armor of the court. Sif is not surprised in the least, the prince having always been scarce in the great halls and after his return even moreso (for there are still those that whisper harsh his name and spit his titles; for all their allegiance to Óðinn, neither she nor Loki are so naïve as to mistake their obedience for acceptance.)

Sif thinks of the horned god, silent and reading in his rooms as he is wont to do, and her palms itch, the fabric of her gown thick and apparent against her skin. There is gold woven into the tails and waves of her hair, and it is icy against the skin of her neck, melting down her back.

The warrior rarely deigns to attend herself, preferring much more to eat in the silence of her rooms or in the gentle company of the Warriors Three and Thórr. But Yule will soon be upon them and the halls are adorned with great fir trees and wreaths, holly and ivy weaving around columns, baubles and decorations glittering bright in the glow of the hanging lights. Fandral and Volstagg are engaged in a lively battle of wits, each attempting to embellish their heroic tales until even all the jewels and gold in Ásgarðr could not compare. A smile flashes across her face as she spots Hogun, sitting only silent and feasting between them. She does not see the crown prince amongst them, the absence of his booming voice and equally outlandish tales a telltale sign that he is once again upon Miðgarðr with Jane.

The warrior gives thanks for the life that was taken to nourish her own, and when she is finished, slips as quietly from the feast as she had come.

 

Sif finds the second prince in his rooms, but not as she had planned. The curtains to the balcony are drawn, letting in the glimmering light of the night sky; a painter's palette of color splashes across the cosmos like watercolor, the ever-reaching Branches of _móðir_ Yggdrasill spread wide above, splintering like shimmering, icy cracks in the inky black of the universe surrounding them. Snows falls gently over the open, wild fields and high mountains, covering all of Ásgarðr in an even thicker blanket of endless white.

Amidst the gentle glow of candlelight and the scent of ancient tomes and ink, Sif finds Loki sitting atop gold and ebony sheets and warm, heavy furs, the thick curtains of his bed drawn back and tied open. His glinting armor is gone, replaced by the leathers and fabrics of his favored ensemble, the line of his shoulders hard beneath the thick material of his overcoat and the tails of his sashes spread out over the sheets. The warrior tilts her head in confusion and curiosity, knowing from the time-candles in the halls that it is only just past the tenth hour; for the second prince to be away from his books so early is strange and unique (sometimes it is so for him to be away from them at all, with the endless hours he keeps.)

The warrior makes her way towards the God of Mischief on silent feet, well-practiced in stealth and quiet as she sits upon the edge of his bed, and she is even more curious when he does not acknowledge her presence at all. The skin of his cheek is as cool against her touch as it has always been, the shadow of his _Jötunn_ heritage hidden in the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the set of his jaw. His hair is layered long and thick over his shoulders, strands curving and curled over his neck and down his back, dotted with twists and tails and tiny braids from Frigg's steady hands. A mark of adolescence, the queen had told her once, when the simple way of a child twists and turns into the trials of adulthood, before unraveling into the peacefulness of an elder's path in the end.

The warrior cards her fingers through the inky black, nails tracing lightning in Loki's mane of hair. The second prince does not move, even as she places a gentle kiss on his cheekbone; only then does the vibrant, undefinable scent of magick tickle her nose, its warmth soothing over her skin and cat-like down her back.

Sif shifts quietly over to the end of the bed so that she can see his face, and the sight of him sends shivers down her spine, though the rational part of her mind knows there is nothing to fear. The second prince's eyes are open and wide, dark green and black replaced by milky white, mouth parted ever-so and it is only now that she can see the runes painted above and beneath his endless gaze. The ancient symbols are nearly black against his snow-pale skin for all the blood they must be painted with. Sif draws back her hand, hesitant to come any closer to Loki; this is not the simple broadening of his consciousness for his ethereal copies. This is life-magick, and though his body is before her she knows his spirit is elsewhere, far beyond her reach. The warrior stands to leave him be, turning her back on the second prince as she does the gnawing in her bones, the prickle beneath her skin that has followed her from the training grounds.

“Sif, _ek em hér_ ,” and when she turns Loki stands before her with endless eyes and marked in blood. His unseeing gaze pierces her more than any weapon that has ever been raised against her, and she can see her own desire drawn in the sharp lines of his teeth, painted upon his cheekbones, hidden beneath fabric and leather in the shadow of his collar. The second prince swipes a hand across his eyes, and when his gaze meets Sif's it is clear, vibrant green and burning.

“ _Hvar warst þú_?” the warrior asks, unable to look away from the runes beneath his eyes; she wonders where the blood was cut from his body, and the desire to press her lips to his wounded skin is maddening.

“ _Á Yggdrasili_ ,” the God of Mischief replies, and she can see the Branches in his eyes, glittering in their inky depths. Yule is upon them, when all of Ásgarðr celebrates in thanks to Yggdrasill, from whom all things come and to whom all things return at their end, she who gives life and takes it back into her Branches when the circle is complete. His visits to the waters of the Great _Móðir_ are his own offering of thanks, his own form of penance for the lives he has taken that no prayer bled from his teeth will ever repay.

“ _Hvat er sá_?” Sif questions, drawing the fingers of one hand across his brow, hovering over the blood-sigils painted there.

“ _Vegvísir_ ,” Loki answers, voice dark and gentle. “Its bearer will never lose their way, even if the path before them is one they have never walked, and they will always find their way home.”

“Have you not walked the Branches of Yggdrasill countless times, even in your youth?” Sif asks playfully, sliding her fingers through the second prince's wild, unruly hair. His hound-teeth glimmer in the low light, and she wants so badly to lick the smirk from his lips.

“One can never be too careful,” Loki returns. “But nevermind myself, what has brought you to my chambers this night?” The warrior feels one of his hands settle at her waist, long fingers deft between the folds and sashes of her gown.

“I am _starving_ ,” Sif replies, the heat pooled in her belly melting down her skin, dripping down between her legs. Her fingers in Loki's hair twirl, pulling his head down, those of her other hand tracing his bottom lip, baring his hound-teeth to her and she thinks, _yes_.

“The feasting halls are full of offerings,” the God of Mischief suggests, one hand resting on her hip as the other trails up and down her back, doing nothing for the itch that prickles beneath her skin like starpoints, fiery and glittering.

“There was nothing in the great halls to my taste,” Sif explains, fingers sliding down the hard plate upon Loki's chest, the second prince curved animal-like and proud into her touch, head tilted down and teeth bared ever-so to her gaze. The blood-runes beneath his eyes are inky and dark, so deep into his skin as if he had burned them into his flesh.

“And what would satisfy the fearsome Warrior Sif?” Loki breathes, fingers practiced in the way they undo the clasp of her gown beneath her mane of dark hair. His body is pressed to hers, hard lines and sharp angles against her smooth, gentle curves.

“Only the finest that Ásgarðr has to offer me,” she finishes, bringing his mouth down to meet her own. The low hum of his laughter tickles her throat, travels between her breasts to settle in the spaces of her ribs. She slides her tongue over his lips, seeking entrance, but the God of Mischief remains closed to her, hands whispering over her skin and she knows he is _toying with her_ , the _brat_.

“ _Loki_ ,” the warrior hisses against his mouth, drawing only more subdued, glinting laughter from the second prince. One of her hands fists in his hair while the other drags down his front, through layers of leather and fabric to the space between his legs, and the hitch in his breath is like water to her parched throat, eager and thirsty for more _._

Sif presses her weight against him, shoving his larger form down onto the bed behind him. She gathers up the train of her gown, every prickle of the fabric against her skin a starpoint, fiery and spurring her on. Her mouth on Loki's is urgent, need bitten raw into his bottom lip and desire painted flushed across his skin like his blood-runes, and the sight of them beneath his eyes is primordial as she draws him undone. The God of Mischief pulls her close, hands sliding rough beneath her gown, nails whispering over the skin of her thighs, grinding her hips down against his own. His heart is quick beneath her touch, dangerous between her teeth as the warrior nips and bites at his throat, wrenching the collars of his garments aside as she works her way down his body. The telltale pinpoint of magick races down her back, but before their clothes can disappear, Sif presses the second prince's hands to the furs and sheets.

“No magick,” she reprimands into his mouth, tongue hot on his teeth. “I want to rip them from you.”

“As my lady commands,” Loki breathes harsh against her neck, digging his heels into the soft fabric beneath them, grinding himself into her. The buckles and ties of his layers are familiar to her well-practiced fingers, and she pulls the lapels of his overcoat open with ease, tugging the God of Mischief upright and soon the entire ensemble is tossed to the floor in a mess of leather and clasps and belts. His slender fingers slide up her back to pull at the opening of her gown, dragging the glimmering fabric down her shoulders until it pools over her legs and his own. His mouth is hot on her skin, tongue slick over her breasts and Sif digs her nails into his shoulders through the thick fabric of his tunic. His teeth are gentle on her nipple, his thumb rubbing against the other, circling, driving her mad, and she presses him to her chest like a babe in arms, her hair falling guardian around his face; every movement of his hand and every flicker of his tongue sends sparks through her belly, prickling down between her legs, electric and hot.

The warrior can feel him hard and ready beneath her, and she digs her hips down into his, as close as she can and stars she can't get close _enough_ , her fingers sliding beneath his tunic, tracing lightning up and down his back and when he whimpers against her breasts all she can think is _more_.

Loki's fingers dig into her hips, his arms behind her back as he licks and nips and kisses his way up her front, hands fisting in her dark hair, dripping with gold and thick between his fingers. The God of Mischief flips her beneath him, placing the warrior amidst the pillows, lifting her legs over his shoulders to yank her gown from her hips. Her hands card through his hair, scritches soothing on his skin as he kisses his way down her belly. The second prince dips his head between her legs, and his tongue on her clit is like fire up her spine, white behind her eyes. Sif grips his hair even harder, guiding him with her wrists, shoving his face into the heat between her thighs he is doing nothing to quell. She doesn't know how long he stays there, licking and nipping and kissing because all she can feel is the overwhelming emptiness, the want for more than just his mouth but no words from her own will persuade the God of Mischief, who can undo the fearsome Warrior Sif with only his tongue and teeth.

Loki's tongue is wicked against her center, quick and hard to bring her to the edge, languid and slow to drag her back from it. All the while his fingers caress her thighs, tracing the shadows of her hipbones, the spaces between her ribs, everywhere but where she wants them most. Sif's hands release their death-hold on his hair, nails finding his hands on her hips and digging, clawing into his skin, a warning and a plea and an invitation all hidden in the curve of her legs around his neck and the heaving of her breasts in time with her heartbeat. The God of Mischief hisses against her, the warrior no doubt having drawn blood with her nails like claws, buried in his skin. His teeth graze her clit, nipping one last time and drawing a strangled moan from her throat as he releases her legs, crawling cat-like and proud over her. The blood-runes beneath his eyes are dark, melting into the flush of his skin where the whites of his hound-teeth glimmer in the starlight of the evening sky, sharp and primal. His lips are sleek with her wetness, glossy and thin and hungry for more, this she can see in his animal eyes and starshine teeth.

Sif's fingers yank the clasp of his tunic, wrenching the fabric over his head to land forgotten on the floor with the rest of their clothes. Her nails pinch at the ties and buckle of his trousers, leather tight with his want for her. The God of Mischief buries his nose in her neck, breath hot and heavy on her skin, whimpers and cries choked in his throat as her hands undo the belts and ties, shoving the material aside.

Her hand on him is warm, ripping a needy moan from Loki's throat as his hips jerk towards her, a silent plea for more. Under different circumstances, Sif would be perfectly willing to play his game, tease and taunt him just as he did her, lead him to the edge and drag him away, again and again until he could stand it no more.

But the warrior's skin sparks against the feel of fur and silk beneath her, the itch gnawing at her bones at the training grounds digging its way into her belly, clawing inside her and making her need. She cannot speak false unto the God of Lies, and she cannot deny that her lust far outweighs her desire to even the score. The gasps and moans and shivers she has drawn out of Loki this night are all the recompense she needs.

Sif tugs at the leather around his hips, and it is a testament to how far gone she is that she pays no further mind to the prickle of magick in the air, leaving the rest of Loki's garments haphazardly on the floor. The second prince rushes his mouth to the warrior's, pressing his hips into hers, throwing one of her legs over his shoulder and sliding his nails along the crook of her knee, feather-light and pinpoint. The touch sends starpoints up her spine, and when the God of Mischief enters her it is like claws upon her belly, desire torn into her skin and licked with the heat of his touch and the feeling of him inside her.

Sif fists her hands in his hair, forcing the second prince's gaze to meet her own, blood-rimmed and wild. His eyes are endless and dark, and when she flips him beneath her they are wide with surprise and sensation. Her eyes scour his body as she moves above him, slow and steady and nowhere near enough, searching for the wound that bled the runes upon his face. The warrior presses his cheek into the furs, and then the other, seeking, spreading his arms wide beneath her in her search.

The God of Mischief is flushed with far more than desire at her touch, her body powerful above his own, commanding and taking what she knows is hers. The blood-sigils beneath his eyes draw her to him like a hunter to prey, and he is helpless beneath the warrior, born like her of the waters of the Great _Móðir_ above them all, raw and undone and they are equals on this holy ground.

Sif's gaze catches the cut on his finger and she licks it clean as he no doubt had before, swirling her tongue over his skin and the cry it wrenches from his throat is music to her ears, moans and whimpers electric down her spine and wet between her legs. Her teeth scrape over the wound, a growl low in the God of Mischief's throat as the warrior tastes blood tangy and hot in her throat, bitten like steel from his body. His wrist in her hand is bone-thin and sleek, but there is strength hidden in his form like a blade wrapped in cloth, pristine beneath the surface.

Loki's hands grab her hips roughly as he sits up, pressing his mouth to hers, tasting his blood between her teeth, swiping his hand across her chest. He marks her equal to himself, the curve of her brow and the line of her cheekbone shadowed in red, bottom lip darkened and throat painted, and to him she is more beautiful than any sigil inked within his books and wrought upon himself. Her fingers hover above the runes beneath his eyes, like a work of art she cannot bring herself to touch for fear of destroying it.

The God of Mischief's kisses are languid and hot, and Sif can taste his need on her tongue, swallowing his cries in her throat and making them her own. He guides her backward, her body beneath his, hand reaching between them both and fingers sparking stars behind her eyes as he moves, the pinprick lights of _móðir_ Yggdrasill's Branches buried in his irises and vibrant in the warrior's vision. The metallic tang of blood is iron in her throat, heavy on her tongue and it only makes her need him more. She is War and Deceit and Honor and this is what she lives for; blood and lust and the heat of battle, their union the greatest act she can commit in the Great _Móðir_ 's honor and for all these things over which the warrior holds domain.

When Sif comes it is like stars, flickering within her belly and down to her toes, electric and hot, a needy cry dug deep from her throat. She rides it out as Loki moves inside her still, her name dripping from his teeth, salt on his tongue, syllables broken and splintered in her ears. The God of Mischief buries his nose in the crook of her neck, kissing and nipping and licking the salt from her throat, her collarbones, her breasts, blood metallic and raw in his mouth. The warrior is beautiful when she comes, undone and unraveled beneath him, her fingers curling tense in the furs and sheets and legs tight around his hips. The second prince's movements inside her are uneven, rhythm unsteady as his own completion approaches like a hunter after prey. Her arms wrap around his neck, fingers entangling in the tails and braids and wild curves of his hair, and he touches his forehead to hers, lips pressed reverent to her gold-adorned hair.

Her name clatters from his teeth, cries ripped raw from his throat as he comes, toes curved like claws into the sheets, burying himself deep, as close as he can. Sif watches him as his eyes open wide, starshine and Branches like fractals inside them, endless and glittering. Her nails dig into his arms, holding him steady, his magick vibrant in his bones as it settles around her shoulders and the sigils beneath his eyes, in the drawn-out, languid moan the God of Mischief buries in her mouth for her to keep, breath labored and fast as he collapses onto her chest.

The warrior holds him as he resurfaces, her nails trailing up and down his back, slow and comforting. The second prince flicks his wrist lazily against her shoulder, and the sweat and blood and liquid between them disappear, the sterile, sharp scent of magick left behind. Sif tilts his chin so his gaze meets her own, fingers brushing his layered hair away from his face, lips pressed to the sigils on his forehead.

“Is the fearsome Warrior Sif satiated now?” Loki breathes, a wry curve at the corner of his mouth, face flushed red with heat and painted with blood. 

“ _Never_ ,” Sif whispers into his teeth, kisses tantalizing on his tongue. “The nature of War is that it cannot be tamed,” and the God of Mischief yelps against her mouth as the warrior flips them over, Yggdrasill's Branches quiet and eternal above them.

**Author's Note:**

>  _(i have opted to use the old norse forms [or the closest things to them] for any person, place, or object names in this fic. in addition, in some iterations of the comics, the aesir natively speak a language other than english and use english only when speaking to humans, which I have chosen to use here as well by differentiating between old norse and english forms of words. i have tried to the best of my ability to ensure all translations are correct.)_  
>   
> 
>  _ásgarðr_ – old norse form of the anglicized asgard, meaning 'enclosure of the _æsir_ '.
> 
>  _frigg_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'frigga'.
> 
>  _miðgarðr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'midgard'.
> 
>  _valhöll_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'valhalla'.
> 
>  _óðinn_ – old norse form of the anglicized odin.
> 
>  _thórr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'thor'; the old norse spelling is _Þórr_ ( _þ_ is the original old norse letter, later replaced by the digraph _th_ all except for icelandic, where it is still used today), but I figured the unfamiliar letter would be confusing and opted to change it to _th_ in the spelling.
> 
>  _yule and the offerings in the great halls_ \- yule is celebrated by the Germanic peoples (and celebrated by many neopagans to this day), and many elements of modern christmas celebrations are ones carried down from the pre-christian traditions of pagan yule; the event was/is centered on or around midwinter (the winter solstice); scholars have connected the celebration to the wild hunt, the god odin, increased supernatural activity, and the pagan anglo-saxon _modranicht_. the wild hunt is an ancient folk myth prevalent across northern, western and central europe; the fundamental premise in all instances is the same: a phantasmal, spectral group of huntsmen with the accoutrements of hunting, horses, hounds, etc., in mad pursuit across the skies or along the ground, or just above it; for fic purposes, i have turned yule into a celebration of the ending of the old year and the beginning of the new, and turned the wild hunt into an event for the gathering of offerings for feasting (which are what loki speaks of to sif): in representation of the end of one year and the beginning of another, the end of lives who have come before and the beginning of those who have yet to come.
> 
>  _móðir_ \- old norse for 'mother'.
> 
>  _yggdrasill_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'yggdrasil'.
> 
>  _ek em hér_ \- old norse for 'i am here'.
> 
>  _hvar warst þú_ \- old norse for 'where were you', in the familiar form of address.
> 
>  
> 
> _(note: in sociolinguistics, a T–V distinction is a contrast, within one language, between second-person pronouns that are specialized for varying levels of politeness, social distance, courtesy, familiarity, or insult toward the addressee. in this case, sif and loki would addressing each other with the familiar forms as there is considerable companionship/familiarity and intimacy between them.)_
> 
>  
> 
>  _á yggdrasili_ \- old norse for 'at/upon yggdrasill'. (note the use of the dative with this particular preposition, which alters the noun's form.)
> 
>  _hvat er sá_ \- old norse for 'what is this'.
> 
>  _vegvísir_ \- an Icelandic magical stave intended to help the bearer find their way through rough weather. The symbol is attested in the Huld Manuscript, collected in Iceland by Geir Vigfusson in 1880 (but consisting of material of earlier origin). A leaf of the manuscript provides an image of the _vegvísir_ , gives its name, and, in prose, declares that "if this sign is carried, one will never lose one's way in storms or bad weather, even when the way is not known". the name literally means 'sign post'.


End file.
